A knock sounds on the dormitory door, and Hermione makes a face, confused; the boys couldn't get up the staircase, and Ginny's never been one to bother knocking.

The wood swings open to reveal Pansy, wringing her hands in an oversized sweatshirt, hair in a sloppy ponytail. "Hey."

Hermione frowns at the way her friend's shoulders curl inward. "What's wrong?"

"I've just—been having a hard time sleeping." Pansy makes her way to sit on the bed beside Hermione as the Gryffindor in question brews in a cauldron on her nightstand. "Nightmares and paranoia and the usual. But they've been really bad, so I was wondering if—maybe I could stay with you tonight?"

"Of course!" Hermione moves to hug her friend's shoulders, no questions asked. "Anything you need. I'm always glad for the company, in here."

"I don't want to—if you have plans with Draco…"

"I don't." Hermione looks her in the eye as she assures her. "And even if I did, your well-being is more important, to both him and I. He can cuddle with Blaise if he's that desperate for someone."

Pansy laughs half-heartedly, leaning her head on Hermione's shoulder. "Love you."

"I love you too. You own prime real estate in my heart."

They're quiet, for a moment; Pansy sighs, peering over the edge of the cauldron. "What are you working on—contraceptive potion?"

"Yep, I'm almost out of my current batch. I do a three month supply at a time—it's how I used to have enough through summers. Even now, although at this point it's habit and not necessity." Hermione's eyes are far away. "It's so terrible it's almost comical, that this is the one I've brewed the most over the years. I could make it in my sleep."

Pansy hums with understanding, squeezing her friend's hand tightly. "That's why you got so good at potions so fast, first year. Why you cared about it so much."

A nod from Hermione. "Why I want to go into healing now." She laughs, and it's—it should be dark, or sad, but she doesn't have it in her to be sad anymore—all she can do is joke about it, or else it's all too heavy. It's easier to just—laugh. "I don't have a single memory or facet of my personality that's gone unaffected by it all."

She snorts, turning to Pansy with a smile. "God, we're so morbid and traumatically fucked up all the time. Tell me something good. How are you and Neville?"

Pansy's cheeks flush pink, and she can't help but smile at the thought. "Good. He's—perfect." She fidgets, repositioning her legs. "So sweet it feels impossible, sometimes. And—so incredibly understanding of all my eccentricities and needs and willing to wait as long as I want for anything and everything and—I know people always say that anyone decent will be, but it doesn't feel that way in practice, you know?"

With an emphatic nod, Hermione moves to put a stasis charm on her cauldron. "It seems like too much to ask of someone, even though logically you know that's not true."

"Exactly." Pansy sighs with a smile, toying with the bracelet on her wrist Neville had gotten her from a small business in Hogsmeade a week prior. It's already growing to be a comforting habit. "He is the sweetest person I've ever met; and he's not afraid to call me out, when I'm projecting or lashing out as a coping mechanism. He doesn't know details, or anything—he can just tell. Figures out my mind before I know it myself."

"Is he…" she hesitates before asking, not sure if it's a sensitive subject for them or not.

"My soulmate?" Pansy questions. "Not a clue. My parents made me write to mine the first day I had anything from him on my skin, tell him to leave me alone and never contact me again. They've always planned on arranging me with Draco or Crabbe, or something, for the alliance, like it's the fucking fifteenth century." She rolls her eyes, expression acidic. "So anyway, I don't know. And I haven't asked Neville about his, either—too nervous he'll leave me for them, I guess. But regardless, even if it's not endgame—he makes me happy." Pansy smiles bashfully. "Really, really happy."

"Good. You deserve nothing less, Pansy. And I can't imagine anyone better for Neville, either."

"Thank you." Pansy rubs at her eyes, making a face. "Now if we can all just survive this war."

"We're closer than we were a year ago," Hermione whispers. As if saying something positive can force them both to feel the optimism that eludes them.

Her friend sighs twirling the ends of her own hair. "If I have to go out, there's not a better way I could imagine than sticking it to blood supremacists." She bites her lip despite herself. "If I die…you'll tell Neville, won't you? That I love him? And Draco and Blaise and Gin and Luna, that they've made the hell the last year has felt bearable?"

Someone else would probably chide her, argue against the pessimism and planning for worst case scenarios, but—Hermione doesn't.

(Doesn't think it's morbid to plan for what truly might happen, would always rather have an unnecessary hard conversation than be left without the right words, with wondering and wishing and pleading with death for a moment's goodbye, if the worst comes.)

"I will," she promises Pansy, grim smile on her face. "You'll do the same for me? All of them, and my boys, and Sof, and—and Sirius—" she breaks off in tears before she can say anyone else's name, lip trembling. "I'm not scared for myself, really. I spent too many years in hell, for that. But—merlin. They've all been through so much already.. I worry that one more loss might break them." She brushes at her eyes, swallowing the sorrowful saliva that fills her mouth.

Pansy smiles sadly. "I've never heard you say Merlin before. You usually say god—or that muggle deity's name, the one who died?"

"Huh." Hermione laughs at her own expense. "I suppose I do. Muggle habit. Harry does it too. I think it, mostly; it's only when I hear Ron or Sirius or Draco's voice in my head that wizard colloquialisms come out, I think." Cocking her head, she confesses, "I haven't been writing to Sofia, as much. I want to, and I feel bad for not responding more thoroughly, but I—I don't know how to pretend I'm not falling apart, and I don't want her to see me crumble. She deserves—only the best, of everything." She wrings her hands. "And that's not me, right now. But I don't know how to tell her that it's because I love her I don't seem myself. Harry's said the same, and I just—we both worry, so much. All we want for her is happiness."

"She'll understand when she's older," Pansy insists. Quiet for a moment, her eyes turn downward. "The others don't know this, but—I have an older brother."

Hermione's eyes go wide, but she doesn't speak, sensing that if interrupted Pansy will lose her nerve.

"He's a squib; my parents faked his death as a child so no one would know." Her jaw clenches with anger, the kind that burns with a lifetime of built up resentment and frustration and hatred. "They'd never want society to know they'd produced a defect. It's the only reason they didn't keep trying for an heir, after me—they were too worried they'd produce another muggle."

She shakes her head, tongue poking the side of her cheek with righteous rage. "As though Darrow is anything but perfect. He's the strongest, kindest, most good person in the entire world. Who cares if he has magic or not? How can that be a more important thing about a person than whether they have a heart of compassion?

"They had him tutored in secret, by another squib—they were able to educate him in both muggle and magical subjects, so he would know our world but be able to survive without magic. It was—well, exactly what you would imagine of bigoted parents whose child was like the people they hate so terribly." She shrugs, because there are no words for the horror of it all. "They've never liked or loved me, but because of Darrow they were always—grateful, that I'd come out 'right'. Treated him even worse after I came along—seven years after him, mind you.

"So the day he came of age, he was gone, with a note to them that said nothing but 'I'm glad to not be magical so I can spend the rest of my life away from the likes of you. Go fuck yourselves.'" A fond smile fills her face at the memory, how greatly it had pissed off their parents. "He left a letter for me as well, hidden in my favorite record's album, with a charm so no one but me could read it. But I didn't write him back for months." The admission burns as it leaves her mouth. "I was so mad at him, for leaving me behind. For leaving at all. It felt like it was meant to hurt me personally, like he just didn't care that I was his sister, and lonely, and wanted to be with him. Even once I finally spoke to him, I resented him for it."

"You were just a kid," Hermione says gently, a hand on Pansy's shoulder.

"Yes, but even still…I would've been mad no matter how old I was. It felt like betrayal. I gave him a lot of shit about it, for a long time. But as I got older, I understood—that he had to do what was best for him. That him sticking around for my benefit wouldn't actually have benefitted me, because he would've been miserable and living a half-life, and I would've been miserable for him, and our house would've been even more toxic. As much as it hurt at the time, I know it was for the best now." She fans at her face, trying to blink away the watery eyes. "Anyway, all of which to say, I know even if Sofia were hurt now, she would understand when she got older. Would only love and respect you for it more."

The Gryffindor beside her nods slowly. "That makes sense. Do you—are you and Darrow close, now?"

"Yes—normally, at least." Pansy makes a face. "Our parents can never know, of course, but we write all the time, and I usually sneak out once a week or so over summers to get lunch with him, if possible. He works in a—a muggle research lab, he calls it? And writes part time—books, the muggles call them 'fantasy'." She snorts, corners of her mouth quirking upward. "His wife owns a business, so they're—amazing. Coolest people I know. But when Voldemort returned…well, he'd be a prime target. And my parents would be all too happy to sacrifice him to the cause. So I—cut off all communication. Told him I'd reach out when it's safe."

"That's why they let you get away with so much dissent and 'improper' behavior, even though they're on Voldemort's side," Hermione realizes, surprise coloring her tone. "They don't want you to tell anyone about him."

"Exactly." Pansy smirks, sharklike. "Don't you just love two-way blackmail?"

/

The first Quidditch match of the season, Harry is—nervous, for the first time he can remember.

Flying has always been the one thing that comes naturally to him; he's never faltered, or struggled, it's as easy as breathing.

(The pitch is the one place he can truly relax, let go of everything weighing on him—no matter who's trying to kill him, or how dark his mind feels, none of it matters when he reaches for the snitch.)

But he feels pressure beyond himself, this time. It's hard to zone out the way he usually does when he feels so responsible for everyone else, when this is his team.

Ron's less anxious, for once, his confidence having been boosted a bit by tryouts and Draco's persistent encouragement, and Katie, Ginny, and the new fourth year chaser are all clearly filled with adrenaline and more confident than anything, excited for the match to start. The new beaters are the only ones who look as anxious as Harry feels, and they both seem so young he can't help but feel an impulse to mentor them.

And they're up against Slytherin, naturally, so the whole school is on the edge of their seats, not to mention he's flying against Draco.

(Which isn't really the problem, because while Draco's an incredible flyer he's much more suited to Chasing and is only a Seeker at his father's behest.)

But it is historically the most skilled team, and what they do lack skill-wise they make up fro with determination and animosity brought on by centuries of rivalry.

It's a slow start—in theory allowing them to adjust, but honestly less than helpful because they're all so wired with nerves and excitement, so thrilled to finally be back in the air.

(For this one thing to feel normal.)

"What's got your eye, Potter? Trying to find a landing spot for when I knock you off your broom?"

Harry has to hold back a snort at Draco's taunting, though they're high enough, far enough away from everyone else as they search for the snitch, that he risks an eye roll, one Draco is long accustomed to (as he earns them from the dark haired boy frequently). "Well even if you did, Malfoy, I wouldn't mind so long as I could keep the bones in my arm this time."

"Eugh, merlin, don't remind me about that!" Draco mimes gagging. "I nearly threw up in the middle of the pitch that day."

"You did?! Imagine if it were actually your arm! And it was because of your elf, anyway, so I don't even want to hear it."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." Draco purses his lips, but Harry knows he's fighting the urge to laugh at the memory of Dobby's poorly executed attempts to protect him at Draco's request. "What do you say you let me catch the snitch just this once so Slytherin leaves me alone?"

Harry tilts his head, considering it as his eyes follow the clouds aimlessly. "Nah. You'd hate to win because I let you—you'd secretly hate me for it the rest of your life. Besides, I have a reputation to uphold. I'm captain, now! I have to prove I'm good enough to deserve it."

"Not like there was ever any doubt of that. You get plenty of special treatment, but even I'll admit your Quidditch success is all you, irritating as it is."

The Gryffindor scrunches his nose up in discomfort at the compliment, unused to them as he is even after years of his dads trying to retrain his brain. He turns his gaze away from Draco, eyes downward as he avoids uncomfortable eye contact, cheeks flushed.

"Potter, even if we win, which I unfortunately doubt, it won't be because of you. Not because of the team you've put together, either—it's strong, except the beaters, but the rest of you really are good enough to make up for them being new and unsure if you try hard enough. Are you actually worried about the match?"

A small smile forms on Harry's face, and he says, "You know, I was!" before darting downward.

His broom shoots toward the pitch at top speed until a yard above the ground, when he jerks upward with a triumphant grin.

The snitch tugs at his grip, but he holds tight until Madam Hooch has finished blowing her whistle, laughing joyfully when the rest of the team tackles him into the grass.

(He'll have bruises, for sure, but these—these are worth having. Worth keeping.)

Draco scowls at him, but Harry smiles back, knowing they'll have a rematch eventually.

(And the world may be going to hell, and his mind may be full of darkness, but he can still smile about something as simple as Quidditch, and that is—everything.)

/

Ron is bouncing on his heels with excitement. "Finally, something useful!"

Hermione levels him with a look, and he holds up his hands apologetically. "Sorry, I know, it's all important, this just feels—more immediate, yeah? Like, if you can apparate away you don't need to win a duel."

"That's fair, I suppose." Hermione frowns. "I hate that we're not all learning together. I mean, I understand the age restriction for the actual license, but it seems unfair that a matter of months' difference in birthdays means Harry and Pansy and everyone else born late doesn't get to learn for another year—especially when we're on the brink of a war."

"Yeah, especially seeing as it's not exactly like driving," Dean agrees, expression annoyed. "There's not really a way to practice at home over summers, or anything."

"Maybe it's something we can work on in our—study group," Neville's careful voice suggests. "Even just a better understanding of theory and the steps involved could save someone's life in action."

Humming in acknowledgement, Hermione's mind begins moving a million miles an hour. "I'll have to look into the way it's tracked, if we'd be able to practice in the Chamber without them detecting it; it would be risky, but…worth it."

(Especially for muggleborn students, with targets on their backs who are sitting ducks away from Hogwarts, whose families don't have a semblance of an ability to protect themselves against the monsters liable to darken their doorstep.)

Across the room, Blaise is razzing Draco about something, but he's not taking the bait, much; he's tuned out of the lesson, eyes dark and jaw clenched.

(Worrying about his upcoming "attempt" on Dumbledore's life, Hermione knows; he has to do it, but managing to without anyone getting caught in the crossfire…)

She attempts to tune out, during the instruction itself; to focus so deeply on the lesson she has no energy left over to think about anything else.

But it's really quite repetitive, and nearly word for word what every text on apparition has to say in terms of both directions and first-timer tips—if it weren't mandatory for licensure, she wouldn't even bother coming to the rest of the sessions.

They're only working on the first step today, and she finds herself helping Terry and Lavender when they're struggling—both people who don't much enjoy abstract, like herself.

She makes a mental note to mention it to Harry, tries to feel hopeful about what this might mean for all of them, as they enter the chaos around them

(Tries not to think about the way she feels eyes watching her all the while.)

/

Draco can't speak, when they wake up; his entire body is visibly riddled with anxiety.

It's so unlike him—Hermione's struck with realization.

(This is it—the first day he'll "try" to kill Dumbledore.)

(It's the only thing that could possibly have him so terrified; the potential to harm another person.)

And he's not telling her, just in case he's caught—so that no matter what, she can never be held accountable for his crimes.

(It's—she doesn't believe in much, in this world, but she's never had to doubt Draco's love. Not for a single moment.)

"I have to go." His whisper is broken, limbs robotic as he tugs on a button up shirt.

She nods, biting her lip as she searches for the right words. "You borrowed the cloak from Harry, right?"

Draco eyes her, because he'd never told her he was going to, but it's really not all that surprising that she figured him out. He nods.

"Good. You—do whatever you have to do to stay safe, okay?" She presses herself into him until his tense limbs wrap around her in reply. "This is not you. What you do today is not who you are—it is you protecting yourself, your mother, the role you're playing for the Order—you've already helped save so many lives, Draco."

He swallows heavily, and she knows he doesn't believe her, thinks himself to be the worst of society. Is terrified of anyone getting hurt in the crossfire, and especially by his hand.

"You can do this," she promises. "I believe in you. We'll be through this hellscape soon, yeah?" Stroking his jaw with her thumb, she presses a quick kiss to his lips. "Do this, and we'll all be here waiting for you. Loving you."

Draco toys with a loose strand of hair without a word. "I have to go. I'll see you later."

Hermione takes comfort in that, that he's at least planning to meet her later, rather than shut himself off from the world the way she knows he wants to when he's so overcome with self-loathing and despair.

She makes her way back to Gryffindor tower disillusioned, meeting up with Harry, Ron, and Ginny just as they're getting ready to leave.

She doesn't tell them, hoping to likewise keep them blissfully unaware of what the day means, but they can tell something's up; she's oddly quiet, even more jumpy than usual.

Neville meets them for lunch at The Three Broomsticks, though Pansy and Luna are off on some hike to look for crumple-horned snorkacks that Luna had been thrilled about, Pansy having agreed to tag along.

They drink, and eat, and talk about anything and everything to distract themselves from their actual problems—hours, they waste away, trying to imagine for just a bit that it's a normal year. A normal Saturday.

After a few butterbeers, when their cheeks are red and their stomachs are warm and the world feels just a little less heavy, they begin making their way back to the castle.

Ron and Neville are in the midst of a deep conversation about some memory of a birthday party for Susan Bones when they were young, the kind every little wizarding kid was invited to solely for them all to get social interaction.

Ginny'd opted to hit Quidditch Quality Supplies with Dean and Cho; Harry's humming some old muggle song that's been stuck in his head all morning, and Hermione's thoughts are a million miles away.

So they're all a bit distracted—it takes them a moment to notice the argument a few yards ahead of them.

"What the hell? This isn't like you, Katie—what could you possibly have gotten that's so important?"

Harry's head pops up, brows furrowed in concern. "Katie Bell? Is she okay?"

"I don't know," Hermione admits with a frown. "She and Leanne have never had any drama, them fighting seems weird."

(It doesn't even cross her mind, then. It's so disconnected.)

They speed up, trying to catch up to where the two girls are now physically fighting, in any attempt to help, Katie's friend reaching for the brown package in hand.

"You can't!" Katie screeches with a shrill voice, pure panic lining her body. "Don't touch it, you can't touch it!"

"Katie," Ron calls out nervously. "Why don't you just calm down, we can all talk about this together."

"No!" She tries to run, but Leanne finally manages to grip the package. "No, you can't, you can't, don't—"

Leanne pulls out her wand, hitting the paper with a slicing hex, and it's then that Katie tries to adjust her grip. Her hand grazes the side of something shiny within, and then—

(Then she's screaming. Agony.)

Hermione rushes to her side, smoothing the hair at Katie's forehead as she attempts to take stock of the scene.

When she glances towards her hands, her stomach drops, catching sight of a necklace within.

(A familiar necklace she'd watched her boyfriend purchase just a few months prior.)

But this is—not what he'd intended, she knows it. Whatever had made Katie so adamant about not allowing Leanne to touch it, had been intended to protect Katie and everyone around her from the necklace's curse.

She attempts to cast the few healing spells she knows, the ones she's preemptively studied for healing school; when that doesn't work, she provides the one semblance of comfort she can offer. "Stupefy."

Katie's entire body relaxes as she goes unconscious, unaware of the pain if for just a little while.

"God." Hermione rubs at her eyes, blinking back the horror of the moment. "I'm going to levitate her so we can get her to the castle. Harry, Ron, can one of you—levitate the necklace? Don't touch it, it's obviously—cursed."

Harry and Ron nod immediately; Ron levitates the book, meeting Hermione's eyes with a bittersweet smile as he casts wingardium leviosa.

(She'd lectured him back then it would be important to learn, but they'd never imagined it being in a situation so awful as this.)

Meanwhile, Harry comforts Leanne, soft voice whispering soothing words as she staggers forward, unable to rip her eyes from her friend.

McGonagall's suspicious, when she's called to the Hospital Wing as Katie's head of house.

She meets Hermione's eyes—broken gaze, the hopeless sorrow and frustration because it's all just so horrible and there's no way out—and the younger woman can tell her professor just knows.

Before Hermione, Harry, and Ron head out, McGonagall waves to catch her attention. "My office. Eight o'clock. Him too."

And she knows she should be nervous, and especially on his behalf—but she doesn't have it in her to feel anything but numb.

She walks back with the boys and writes to him; pacing and tossing and turning in her favorite armchair in the Gryffindor common room until just before eight.

Disillusioning herself, she slides out the door, ignoring the portrait's cries of confusion at her invisible presence. She's shivering with nerves and exhaustion as she makes her way to the professor's office.

Draco must've already entered, still beneath the cloak, because as soon as she closes the door behind her, the professor waves her wand to lock it, before Hermione can even remove her own disillusionment.

They're both seated on the other side of the desk, and Hermione knows they're both bracing themselves for McGonagall to scream—

But instead, she softly says, "What happened?"

"What?" Draco rasps, eyes already welling with tears.

"Tell me what happened," McGonagall orders, voice firm but not angry, "so that we can make sure it doesn't happen like this again."

Draco opens and closes his mouth before collapsing in on himself, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

Hermione's at his side instantly, one hand stroking his hair while the other rubs circles on his back. "Hey, you didn't mean to hurt her. It's okay, Draco. This isn't—"

"Don't tell me it isn't my fault when we all know it is, Hermione!" he snaps.

She flinches away from his harsh tone, and he gives her an apologetic wince but doesn't take back the words.

"I bought the necklace. I'm the reason she had it. It's no one's fault but mine that she's hurt, now. And I—" he swallows heavily, rubbing at red eyes. "I have to live with that for the rest of my life. I can never take it back."

McGonagall clears her throat, locking her gaze on him. "Mister Malfoy. First and foremost, whatever your position may be at the moment, I have no doubt in my mind you did everything in your power to ensure no one but Albus was hurt. Did you not?"

"I—" Draco takes a deep breath, trying to subdue the hiccups he'd burst into. "I had to imperio her to bring it, but—I made sure to order her not to touch it, or let anyone else to. To do whatever it took to make sure no one but him touched it. Even cast a spell to not allow any hand but his could physically open the paper. But the slicing hex…" he shakes his head, meeting her gaze with desperate eyes. "I didn't mean for this to happen. I thought it would be enough, and it—it wasn't and now she's—I did this. Merlin, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry."

"Draco." McGonagall's eyes are sad, but her voice doesn't waver. "We're at war. I am—horribly sorry that Miss Bell was injured. I would take her suffering on myself if such a thing were possible. But the fact of the matter is that what you're doing, however dark and awful it may seem, is necessary for good to win. If you weren't taking these steps, we would be…in far, far more dire straits."

Hermione watches her soul mate carefully, the denial and hopelessness in every line of his face. The disbelief of Minerva's statement.

"Your information about Greyback's planned attack on the eastern village last week gave everyone time to evacuate. You know the Montgomery girls?" The professor asks, brows raised. "Their mother lives there with their little brother—he's just five, and exactly the bastard's sick taste. He's alive and unharmed, because of you. As is the entire rest of their community. A month before that, you got us word about the raid through muggle Surrey—more than twenty muggles whose injuries would've been fatal were saved. The Order arrived before the Death Eaters were able to finish the devastation—and managed to take out several key players. Who knows how many lives they could've ended, throughout the rest of the war." She sets her jaw. "I don't believe that people are collateral damage, and I am—horrified that it's come to this, students bodies as the battleground. But this is the reality we're in. This is all we have to work with, all we can do. And so we must, even if it kills us inside."

Draco takes a deep breath, chest trembling, but nods in understanding.

"You're both soldiers, now. You weren't alive for the last war, but this…this is only the beginning of the casualties. We will all have done things that make our stomachs lurch, by the end. And perhaps our souls will be tainted, but—" the older woman sighs, for one looking her age, the weariness weighing so very heavily on her heart. "But I have to believe it's all worth it. That we're creating a better world."

"A better world for our children," Hermione whispers, leaning her head onto Draco's shoulder. "Somehow. Anything is worth making sure they never know this darkness. This pain."

He squeezes her hand, and she knows he agrees—know they're on the same page.

(Knows they'd both rather die here and now, go out fighting before ever living their lives, than to bring their children into a world so difficult and painful.)

(They'll do whatever it takes, to make sure they never have to; to make sure Sofia can grow up safe, that the first years who look so small will never have such old eyes by seventeen, aged from the trauma, the horrors their entire generation has grown up in.)

"Okay?" McGonagall asks.

Even as his fists clench with the emotions suffocating him, Draco nods—there is no other way. However horrible it feels, this is best case scenario. As good as they can hope for.

(He'll do better, next time.)

"Okay."

/

She doesn't warn them.

She's not at breakfast—not unusual, as she's often off doing one odd thing or another, and Harry doesn't appear worried or surprised at her absence, so Hermione doesn't think anything of it.

Harry's just lifting a glass of pumpkin juice to his lips when the mail arrives; but something is…different.

There are days with more mail than usual, of course.

But today, the windows darken as nothing short of a swarm of owls makes their way into the Great Hall.

Nearly every student is accosted, some receiving multiple parcels and envelopes and copies.

"What on earth," Hermione wonders aloud quietly, Harry equally confused beside her.

Hermes flies in between them rapidly, dropping a newspaper clipping just beside Ron's plate before zooming away; by the time Hermione and Harry receive their own hastily written letter from Sirius, Ron's choking on a mouthful of eggs.

"She's done it. Oh, merlin's pants—she's fucking done it."

The entire hall is abuzz, volume much higher than the usual conversation, some students shrieking and gasping all around. Even professors aren't immune, hurriedly conversing amongst themselves, eyes wide with shock and worry.

It's so noisy and chaotic, Hermione's not quite sure she's heard him right, for a moment. "Who's done what, now?"

Ron shakes his head, face pale but lively as he slaps the article before them with shaky hands.

"Lord or Liar?" she reads the headline aloud, voice high pitched like it hasn't been in years as she feels her heart race. Harry sucks in a gasp beside her. "Voldemort's True Identity Revealed: The Half-Blood Behind the Supremacy Hoax"

On her other side, Ginny, like her brother, appears both thrilled and terrified. "This changes…"

"Everything," Neville finishes for her, eyes alight with wonder. "This changes everything."

Silently, Harry checks at his skin, frantic as he searches for a message from his soul-mate as the impact of her words rebounds through the wizarding world, breathing growing more shallows when he finds no ink across his body.

(A reverberation shakes the hall as a dormitory on the opposite side of the castle explodes, leaving nothing but splinters and flame in its wake.)

A/N: chapter title from you are more by tenth avenue north

hi friends, I hope the world is treating you okay. I finally have the rest of the hbp era laid out more ~concretely~ so the next few updates will (hopefully) come a bit quicker, although I just started a new job and have a lot going on w my personal life/trash MH, so bear with me if a take a hot minute to get adjusted, I promise I will keep them coming as fast as possible (im fr so excited for the rest of this story)

thank you for your continued reading/support/I adore you. see you soon.